


Old Soul

by RisingMoonYue



Series: Old Souls [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian was reincarnated and has Trauma (TM), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingMoonYue/pseuds/RisingMoonYue
Summary: Talia always said Damian was an old soul. She just didn't realize how right she was.
Relationships: Jon Lane Kent & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: Old Souls [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066646
Comments: 14
Kudos: 103





	Old Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reincarnation fanfiction about Damian. Essentially, random person is incarnated as Damian, and Does Not Have A Good Time. It is to be noted that the reincarnated person does not know about Batman or other superheroes from their past life. There are a few religious hints in a place or two, but if you don’t like it very easy to skip over and ignore. I am also ignoring the whole Ric Grayson thing and probably have gotten the timeline wrong, but neither of those really matter a whole lot for this fic. 
> 
> ⚠️⚠️TRIGGER WARNINGS: (Temporary) Character Death, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Cutting, Child Abuse⚠️⚠️

Talia always said Damian was an old soul. She just didn’t realize just how right she was.

* * *

Damian al Ghul was born on a cold August night out of an artificial womb in a cold, cold room. Somewhere far away, nine months before, a talented young girl died far before her time. Somehow, that girl was aware of both these events.

  
She wailed as she was pulled out of a glowing green tube.

  
_She was so cold._

* * *

  
Time passed, and she learned more. Her name was Damian. She was a he now. He didn’t mind too much. Sympathy for both sides now, he supposed. She always went with the flow in the Before, and he would too in the Now.

  
He contemplated how different—how advanced, if he’s grasped his current surroundings well enough—his biology must be for him to be able to comprehend everything in the Before and Now when he was one. _~~(He didn’t think he should ask.)~~_

* * *

  
He learned his family legacy at two.

  
He officially met his grandfather at three.

  
He was trained since he was able to walk.

  
His first kill was the nursemaid his mother deemed too close to him after he learned basic Arabic.

  
He learned he could not be as he was when he met his mother.

  
In his previous life, Damian had been an actor. Who-he-was-Before had trained endlessly for years with a passion unlike any other. She was the best at what she did, and everyone knew it.

  
To survive, Damian-in-the-Now realized he needed a mask. A role to play.

  
At two years old, Damian donned the mask of “Ibn al Xu’ffasch”.

  
At two years old, Damian started the riskiest act he will ever perform in either life.

  
At two years old, Damian’s tears and screams silenced.

  
_He felt so numb._

* * *

  
“Ibn” was a _complete_ _brat_. He was self-entitled, spoiled, and had a superiority complex.

  
Despite everything though, “Ibn” just wanted acknowledgment, being someone raised in a loveless environment. He had soft spots, but if he felt threatened, he fell onto the instincts brutally beaten into him and attacked.

  
He was a child raised in a horrible environment that adapted the best he could.

  
This was the character Damian made.

  
This was “Ibn”.

* * *

  
At five years old, Damian played “Ibn” constantly. The stage was set, he had memorized his lines, and it was far too late—far too _dangerous_ —to back out now.

  
If he stopped, he knew, he would break into thousands of tiny pieces.

  
_(He didn’t want to be doing this for nothing.)_

  
_(Maybe, maybe if he did this long enough, he would finally get to exit stage left, and go far, far away.)_

  
_(Maybe he’d get to act for fun again.)_

  
_(He liked that thought.)_

  
Damian could only come out when he was safe, when there was an intermission in this big, long play.

  
_Damian was never safe._

* * *

  
At eight years old, Damian completed the Year of Blood. He prayed for forgiveness in God, even if he’s certain at this point he would never deserve anything close to it. He prayed that the souls he so mercilessly slaughtered would find peace, even if he burned in hell forever for everything he’s done.

  
Damian felt dirty.

  
He had never wanted to cry more in the years of playing “Ibn”.

  
But Damian was never safe.

  
So “Ibn” must stay on—a mask that never leaves.

  
He was slowly starting to forget the life Before; starting to lose himself to “Ibn”.

  
He didn’t want to forget—he didn’t want to become “Ibn”. He’d rather die.

  
Was it bad that Damian wanted to die?

* * *

  
At ten years old, Mother sent Damian—sent her son “Ibn”—to his father. Damian was expecting a detective, one who could fight well enough to impress Mother and Grandfather.

  
That was not what he saw. Oh, the man was still a seasoned fighter and a brilliant detective. That much was true. But...

  
His father was a _grown man_ who dressed like a _bat_. His father was a _furry_. And, _supposedly_ , a superhero. Vigilante. Whatever. Which was weird, because he didn’t realize superheroes were real. _~~(Then again, at this point he had found enough differences to establish that he was from a different universe entirely.)~~_

  
Mother left these bits out when she spoke with “Ibn” about him.

  
He supposed it was just his luck he was reborn into a family full of assassins and furries.

  
Damian wasn’t quite sure what to think about that. Regardless, it likely didn’t matter what Damian thought of the man. His father had—had _sexual intercourse_ with _Mother_ of all people, who had been pit-mad for as long as Damian could remember. _(And by all that was good in the world, wasn’t that an image he wanted out of his head.)_

What kind of man would willingly do that? What kind of man would _Mother_ call “Beloved”?

  
Surely his father was just like Mother?

  
After all, it was all he’d ever known in this cruel world.

  
No, much better in the long run for “Ibn” to stay on, even as Mother left him cold and alone in Gotham.

  
Father may not say it, but he knew he was unwanted.

~~_Who would want a cursed child such as him?_ ~~

* * *

  
Damian didn’t understand. He didn’t understand _anything_ here.

  
Back in his previous ~~_prison abode_~~ home, the rules were clearly defined. The stage was set, the props were up, the script was written, and “Ibn” was _made_ for center stage.

  
But Father didn’t _want_ “Ibn”.

  
As “Ibn”, he was a _burden_. _Unuseful_. A _monster in human skin_.

  
There was no way to accept “Ibn” in his life.

  
Damian wanted to cry. He couldn’t switch masks, he _couldn’t_. If he did, he would break. Shatter into a thousand tiny pieces cutting into his flesh and bones.

  
He couldn’t subject himself to that.

  
Damian didn’t want to be here.

  
Damian didn’t want to be _anywhere_.

  
Damian wanted to _die_.

  
But he couldn’t.

  
Mother and Grandfather would bring him back in the pits whose water already stained his eyes green.

  
And he would break. But this time there would be no escape.

  
Damian wondered why he was even born.

* * *

  
Damian had the feeling that if he were born here, ~~_they would have loved him_~~ he would have loved them—been a real family, like he can foggily remember having in the Before.

  
Father was large and strong, an unchanging pilliar in a mess of chaos. Despite his furry status ~~_(of which he will never ever speak out loud)_~~ , he had proven to be a reliable man and an even better fighter. Damian respected him so much. ~~_Especially his no-kill policy._~~

  
Grayson was a smiling, warm light that Damian desperately wanted directed at him. The man had a temper, but did his best to treat him kindly, even with Ibn being an unwanted mess in their lives. He reminded Damian of an acrobat—a fellow showman—Who-he-was-Before knew in life. He was always smiling and finding a reason to laugh. _~~Damian wondered what he was doing now.~~_

  
Drake was a certifiable genius, who also happened to be around the same age as Who-he-was-Before. He thought that it would’ve been fun to talk with him, pick his brain, and make stupid gen z jokes no one else got to make. Damian was sad that Ibn had to take such a negative light on him. He thought they could’ve been close if they met in the Before. He was sad Ibn had to hate him. ~~_Damian remembered long nights of laughter and nonsense. He wished he could have that back._~~

  
Todd reminded him of home at first—of Mother, of Grandfather, and of endless bloody steel—but as he gathered more information about him ~~_(always know who poses a threat to your legacy, my son)_~~ , he decided Todd was much closer to Damian and Ibn—to _himself_ —than anyone at the League. He was someone who died and woke up again in the cold, cold dark. Damian wondered if Todd was more like him than he realized. Maybe he had a Before too. Maybe he was also an unwilling actor on this great stage. Even if he wasn’t, they remained the same at their core—a broken soul inside a bruised and battered body.

  
Alfred reminded him of the misty images he had of Grandpa from the Before—always bustling about, finding something to do, scolding everyone when required, always with words of wisdom to impart. ~~_Damian missed Grandpa. He always knew what to say or do._~~

  
He wished Ibn didn't always try to kill everyone. _He **hated** killing people._

  
Maybe in another life, Damian would’ve been born here. Maybe instead of a Mother’s pit-tainted love, a Grandfather’s twisted teachings, and a legacy of blood, shadows and death, he could’ve had this.

  
Maybe.

  
Ibn decided there was no point thinking about this.

  
Damian decided this whole business terrified him.

  
_He’s_ _s o c o l d ._

* * *

  
At ten years old, Father died.

  
Damian couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, even if Ibn acted otherwise. Everyone around him seemed to die eventually. Everyone but him.

  
He resigned himself to returning to hot days, cold nights and _cold_ , _cold_ blood-soaked steel.

* * *

  
Damian didn’t understand.

  
They had the chance to send him back. “Ibn” had been a burden on them. “Ibn” never listened. “Ibn” was a _murderer_. They should have abandoned him, just like he deserved for all the blood on his grimy little hands.

  
Why did they keep him? Why make him Robin? This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t in the script _at all._

  
Damian didn’t understand.

* * *

  
For the first time since the Before, Damian felt _warm_. Grayson—Richard, he allowed, if only in his head—kept him, cared for him, taught him, scolded him, trusted him, treated him like the child he was never allowed to be. Let him _be_ that child.

  
Didn't force expectations on him. Explained exactly what the rules were.

  
Damian didn’t need a script here. For once “Ibn” was slowly showing the actor underneath. Not quite, but…

  
Damian thought that if he let himself break, Richard might just pick up the pieces.

  
Maybe he’d finally live.

* * *

  
Father returned. Richard— _Grayson_ —left. Only back to Bludhaven, but left all the same. Left him with Father and Drake.

  
He felt _cold_ again.

  
He didn’t know how to act around Father and Drake.

  
Damian didn’t think about breaking character anymore.

* * *

  
Mother placed a bounty on Damian’s head.

  
He didn’t know why it hurt so much. It was in character, after all. A future act of the play he just didn’t look at for fear of what lay ahead.

  
It was _completely in character_.

  
So why did it blindside him so much?

  
Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

  
His Father’s family never stayed on the same script—or even a script at all. One moment everything was going as predicted, then the next the entire course changed, and the characters completely changed while Ibn stayed the same. He wished their scripts would just choose one and stay there. It would make more sense.

  
_(He wished Mother’s script would change.)_

  
_(Mother’s script was full of death-tainted love with the magic of the pits corroding its edges.)_

  
It really shouldn’t hurt this much. It was just all one big play.

  
So why did it hurt so bad?

* * *

  
Mother killed him.

  
She created a clone that was and wasn’t him, the body but not the soul. An actor who had no other.

  
She ignored his cries to stop, to call off his pitiful brother that only listened to her commands and nothing else.

  
She killed him.

  
He finally got what he wanted.

  
So why was he not content?

  
Why was he still hurting?

  
_Why would it not stop?!_

  
He wondered if he would be reborn again.

  
Would he have an After, and leave Damian and Ibn to become Who-he-was-Before as well?

  
Or would he be reborn like Todd and Grandfather and Mother, with the evil magic of Lazarus that corrupts and changes?

  
Damian wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  
He was fine staying dead.

  
Really.

  
He was.

* * *

  
He woke up.

  
Father came for him.

  
Father revived him, without using the Lazarus Pits.

  
Father _smiled_ at him.

  
He was fine with not waking up. But now he thinks he’s fine with waking up too.

  
Damian felt warm again.

  
Maybe he would stay this way?

* * *

  
Grayson was dead.

  
Damian died so the man would live, and the man doesn’t have the _decency_ to at least stay _alive_ to see Damian again.

  
Damian wished his Father’s family would stop making him feel _warm_ again. It wasn’t worth it when the _cold_ inevitably came back.

  
So much pain, so much emotional whiplash, so much _cold-then-warm-then-coldcoldcold._

  
“Ibn” was becoming harder to maintain. Someday, he knew, he wouldn’t have the chance to take off the mask, to exit the stage before he broke. Still, he maintained character.

  
Actors don’t break character.

  
_No matter what._

  
Outside, Ibn stood strong and proud.

  
Inside, Damian was falling, falling, fading, slowly being embraced by the _cold, cold dark._

* * *

  
Jon was nice. For all that he and Ibn got off on the wrong foot, Ibn liked him.

  
_Ibn liked someone Damian liked._

  
Damian didn’t think it would happen in his lifetime, not this quickly, and not someone unrelated to Father.

  
Damian thought it was nice to have a friend like Jon. Jon seemed to understand him in ways a lot of other people didn’t. Jon somehow managed to see the actor _without knowing_ he was seeing him. It was weird. _(He'd be a natural actor, Damian thought)_

  
He somehow always knew when Damian was feeling so, so _cold_ ; more _cold_ than normal. When he was, Jon would always take Ibn-and-Damian somewhere quiet, and they would just… sit. And talk. And just _be_.

  
It was nice.

  
Damian was glad he had Jon as a friend.

  
Damian wasn’t scared to feel a little warm around Jon.

  
Just a quiet warmth, only with him. He never took it anywhere else. It was a special kind of warmth, reserved for special times and special people. Like a family that chose him regardless of his wishes, of his past; a sibling he never knew he had.

  
Jon was his grounding rock in this chaotic mess of a play.

  
Damian had missed having a best friend.

  
Damian thought it may be worth living if he could make Jon smile more.

* * *

  
Sometimes, in a rare good mood, he would gently teach Jon how to act. The way to direct attention to his hands, how to keep a poker face, how to fully immerse yourself in your role. How to decide a script for yourself and to stick to it. How to use the skills on and off the stage, and the differences between the two. Warns him about the dangers of long-term roles, of a semi-permanent mask. Of becoming too immersed, of losing yourself. They never said anything about it. This time was something special. Something theirs. ~~_(He thinks Jon has probably realized by now that Damian always wears his mask.)_~~

  
Damian liked using his skills for something good in this life. ~~_(Someone to pass them on to, just in case.)_~~

  
If this was the closest Damian ever came to removing his mask _~~(even closer than with Grayson)~~_ , neither of them ever said a word.

  
It was better that way.

* * *

  
Grayson was alive.

  
Grayson was _always_ alive, and Damian didn’t think he’d ever been this angry—this _hurt_ —ever, in the Before and the Now. Never for this long, never this intensely.

  
In the Before, Damian’s anger came slowly and burned quickly, never staying long. He went with the flow. His forgiveness came quickly, but his memory lasted forever. He lived by going with the flow, it was the only way to keep afloat in his mess of a life, and he still did when he could, but—

  
But he was so _**ANGRY**_.

  
Damian thought death might be better than this _hot-cold-burning_ anger.

  
Was this what being warm around someone brought him? The _hot-cold-burning_ feeling?

  
He didn’t like it.

  
The _numb-unfeeling-cold_ was safe. “Ibn” was easier in the _cold_. Why couldn’t he just stay _cold_?

  
Why did Grayson _always_ make him feel again, no matter how hard he tried? Why did Grayson keep messing up his script? Even Jon, a key cast member who cast the _gentle-gentle-kind-warmth_ never did that. Jon danced around, a supporting role in the main cast of characters, helping him as he could from the sidelines. He was like a senior understudy, learning as both the backup and his own role. ~~_(But there was no equivalent of how special Jon was, Damian knew.)_~~ His times became his own, making use of every second of spotlight. Grayson always seemed to jump onto the stage regardless of the script and did whatever the heck he wanted.

  
Damian sometimes thought that the only way to feel completely numb again was to just die. _For good._

* * *

  
He tried.

  
He slit his wrist.

  
He really tried.

  
But he _couldn’t_. Once the blood started pouring, he thought of Jon, Father, of Drake and Todd and Alfred and Grayson and how _warm_ they sometimes made him even if he was _sure_ they _had_ to hate him _so much—_

  
He _couldn’t_.

  
He _couldn’t_ die.

  
He cursed his selfish heart, that despite his best efforts, still craved that _beautiful_ , _comfortable_ _warmth_.

  
He just wanted to feel _numb_ again.

  
He looked at his bleeding wrist, staunching the blood, and felt just an _inkling_ of that numbness, and—

  
He kept doing it.

* * *

  
Damian was very careful after that first time. He never cut too deep, and “Ibn” never showed any signs of wounds nor pain ~~_(no grandson of mine will show such pathetic weakness—)_~~.

  
(He started pulling away from Jon. He didn’t want to taint his _warm-warm-light_ with his _dark-dark-cold_.)

  
Everything was _fine_.

  
Everything was _completely under control_.

  
~~_(It had to be.)_ ~~

* * *

  
It wasn’t enough. Soon cutting didn’t seem to help, didn’t seem to bring back that _blessedblessednumbness_ and he _needed_ it and he didn’t understand _why_ and he just wanted to feel that numbness _one more time—_

* * *

  
Damian got careless.

  
He cut too much, and he cut too deep. He would live, but hiding them was next to impossible with the weather warming up and the humidity hanging in the air. It would be so _hard_ for Ibn to hide them.

  
He was so _tired_.

* * *

  
They were on patrol. Everyone was there for once. Grayson was visiting from Bludhaven, and Todd was hanging around from wherever he left to when he was globetrotting.

  
His Father and his three sons, all on one patrol together. With Damian.

  
He should’ve known it would be impossible to hide his wounds.

  
All it took was Drake grabbing his arm to stop him from leaving. He showed pain. He _cried out_ in pain.

  
Pathetic.

  
He was an actor. He was _supposed_ to keep to his role. No breaking character in the middle of a scene.

  
_Ever_.

  
But he _did_.

  
And now they knew.

* * *

  
They wouldn’t stop asking questions.

  
They were in the Medbay, and as they inspected and treated his wounds, they kept asking _WHY_ and _HOW_ and with _WHAT_ and it was all Damian could do to keep “Ibn” up and running.

  
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last.

* * *

  
It was Todd that finally got Ibn— _Damian_ —to break.

  
Damian knew that Todd had stayed in the League for a time after being revived. He was Mother’s “pet project,” so to speak.

  
He just hadn’t realized Mother talked about him to Todd during that time.

  
“You know,” said Todd, his eyes sympathetic and knowing as he tried to get Damian to open up, “Talia always said you were an old soul.”

  
That sentence. That _one blasted sentence_ that defined his _very existence_ in this world.

  
It broke “Ibn” to pieces.

  
And shattered Damian along with it.

* * *

  
Damian didn’t stop crying for hours. He was _so tired_ , and this was just all so _wrong_ , he didn’t _want_ to break script, he _shouldn’t_ , but—

  
_He was so tired._

* * *

  
In the end, Damian told them.

  
About the Before and Now.

  
About Mother and Grandfather.

  
About the _warm-and-cold._

  
About the numbness he needed.

  
About how he wanted to die, but couldn’t.

  
About “Ibn”.

  
About the grand play that was his entire life.

  
About the scripts everyone and no one seemed to follow.

  
He told them _everything_.

* * *

They listened in silence.

  
Damian didn’t dare look at them. He didn’t want to risk seeing—something. Anything. He didn’t want to see what was going through their thoughts.

  
He didn’t know how they would react. They never stayed on script. Why should they adhere to any kind of script at all now?

  
Why expect anything good to come out of this?

  
He was a broken mess, a freak of nature. He was a murderous monster who was bred to feel no grief nor guilt nor sadness.

  
He wasn’t supposed to care.

  
So

  
WHY

  
D I D

  
_H E_

_  
?_

* * *

Damian closed his eyes when he finished. He didn’t even want to chance seeing their reactions. Their rejection. Their hate. Their disgust.

  
He had no mask to hide behind.

  
He was already broken.

  
He didn’t want the broken shards of what was left to be pulverized.

  
He waited for the sounds of their rejection, of their hate, of their disgust. Scorn, anger. _Something. ANYTHING._ He just hoped that whatever they did, they didn’t drag it out. That they got it over with.

  
Maybe then he could finally die?

  
“Damian.” That sound. It was his name. But it was careful. Delicate. Within it was a tone that felt so familiar. It reminded him of the _warm_ feeling he sometimes got. He remembered hearing that tone in the Before, but… What was it? He used to know, he knew, but he couldn’t remember anymore.

  
“Dami… You know we love you, right?”

  
What?

  
Love?

  
_Him?_

  
Damian’s eyes popped open in surprise. He didn’t understand.

  
Those words. He couldn’t comprehend those words. _Love?_

  
_Damian?_

  
The one who created Ibn al Xu’ffasch?

  
The one who played Ibn for years? Who played him for so long he could barely remember who “Damian” was? Who could love someone like that?

  
He told them so.

  
Why did they look so sad?

  
Why did they look so scared, so horrified, but still have that- that _warmth_ , that _emotion_ \- that _love_ in their eyes?

  
Damian didn’t understand.

  
_Damian D I D N ’ T U N D E R S T A N D !_

  
_Why?_

  
_WHY?_

  
_WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY—!?_

  
Damian started crying again as _warm-warm-so-warm_ arms circled around him, encompassing him with a warmth he hadn’t felt before, not in this life.

  
It was like the stage lights were replaced with sunshine instead.

  
His ears were barraged with the sounds of endless _warm-warm-warm_ words, saying things he thought would be impossible to attribute to him ever since he was small.

  
The dead girl-now-boy.

  
The actor.

  
The creator of “Ibn”.

  
The coward who hid behind a mask for over eight years.

  
Damian.

  
All of him. Maybe, Damian thought, feeling so, so _warm_ , he could be okay again.

  
Just sitting here, surrounded by this _warm, warm_ love.

**Author's Note:**

> I think my favorite part of this entire thing is writing about Jon and Damian.
> 
> Damian: life sucks. it’s horrible. i hate it.  
> Jon: *exists*  
> Damian:  
> Damian: life mostly sucks.
> 
> Please comment down below thoughts and/or constructive criticism!  
> If you’ll excuse me, imma go read fluff.
> 
> ——
> 
> This [work](https://risingmoonyue.tumblr.com/post/190133178144/old-soul) is also posted on my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/risingmoonyue). Go check it out for fanart and other fanfic stuff!


End file.
